Monday, a national holiday here, marked five years since my father died. Early on a pre-Covid Monday morning five years ago, he died in Portland Oregon, 8,000km away.
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I knew this day – the fifth anniversary – would come, of course, but it's been shockingly fast.
In the first four anniversaries, I did something I thought he’d enjoy doing – having hot and sour soup, for example, in a Chinese restaurant; or a latte, say. But this year – the bigger, half-decade anniversary – I couldn’t think of anything to do. It was weirdly stressful, until I realized he’d say something like, “The fuck do I care, I’m dead? – have fun.”
And so, in a way, that’s what I did. I tried to go to a museum, which is something I’ve done a couple times in the last five years. But, looking at my mapping applications, realized the museum I wanted to go to is closed on Mondays. 1.
Instead, I quickly decided to go to a shop I’d been meaning to visit, and then to try to find a coffee shop near there, and have a latte. So I visited the shop, walked from there (in Daikanyama) to another section of town (Sangenjaya), to see if the items I’m looking for were in a shop there, and spent the day roaming around, before grabbing dinner on the way home,
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I didn’t have fun, exactly; memories don’t stray too far from the surface. But I did enjoy the wandering around.
Later, I watched a couple more episodes of “Shogun” (2024) and then spent some time remembering. The remembering is important, but it’s also painful. Those nerves are fragile and touchy and getting too close is punishing.
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My dad’s been dead for five years. It has gone by heartbreakingly fast.
How the fuck has it been five years?
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